"Connection is why we’re here." — Brené Brown

The Audition

The hoops to being an “on-top-of-it” parent are endless. Remember to pack a lunch every day. Check their homework every night. Help them brush their teeth two times a day. Cook dinner for an entire family. Orchestrate on time after school pick-ups and drop-offs with accompanying sports equipment, water bottles and snacks. Remember to pay the monthly daycare bill. Sheepishly solicit uncles, aunts, grandparents and neighbors to donate to the current fundraiser. Check to make sure they remember their winter hat and gloves on the first cold day of the season. Check to see if they need new boots and coats. It is exhaustingly endless. But somehow we scramble and hustle and keep the barreling train moving forward. Sometimes, the wheels rattle and sometimes they screech and sometimes we wonder if they are falling off, but somehow, we keep things moving forward.

Last week was just like every other stretch of hurling myself over each hurdle of the 100-meter sprint to the end of the next 7-day stretch. It was Sunday night and I was bracing myself for a week of having an out-of-town husband-teammate. I was rallying to keep myself afloat by studying our family Google calendar as if prepping plays for the Saturday morning football game. My eyes flitted onto the upcoming Sunday. “Auditions” it said. My heart took a freefall down the cliff to my stomach. You see, I have a bad habit of burying anxiety-ridden thoughts to be searched for later, and I had done exactly that a few weeks ago.

My seven-year-old daughter had been asking since the start of the school year about auditioning for a “specialty dance” at her dance studio. My seven-year-old daughter—my quiet, thoughtful, unwavering-as-steel little girl wanted to audition for a small group dance. Who was I to deny her of her greatest ambition to date? You go girl, I enthusiastically fist-pumped, in my best she-is-fierce-hear-her-roar impersonation. That is, until I got the instructions for auditions. “Choreograph 6 – 8 8 counts of dance, any style, any music. We can’t wait to see your creativity!” it read. I was horrified.

First of all—for point of reference—you should know something about me. I have no sense of coordination. Here are a few facts about me:

1. I am the person who sprains her ankle walking on flat ground. Routinely.

2. I once fell from standing height while standing still at a wedding because I had put on heels for the first time after spending my entire intern year in residency working, eating, and practically sleeping in sneakers and scrubs.

Do you get what I am saying? To say that I have never been much of a dancer is to let me down gently. I certainly have never learned a piece of choreographed moves to a beat, let alone know the first thing about choreographing a number myself. My anxiety dug a hole in that mud pile in my brain where I hide unwanted terrifying thoughts and snuck this bit of palpitation-inducing information deep into its trenches.

I carried on week by week, just trying to be that scraping-by parent I was so seasoned at being. But now here I was, 7 days from The Audition. I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT AN 8 COUNT IS. My panicked brain screamed at me. I frantically searched for a reputable life-line. I asked my daughter, “What is an 8 count?” “A what?” She looked at me blankly. “What is an 8 count in dance? Like, do you count to 8? What is it?” She looked back at me as if I was speaking in Klingon. “An 8 count. Do you know what I am talking about? What is it?” I quickly realized this was leading nowhere fast. I set it aside, and busied myself on the train. We pushed forward with the bedtime routine. Homework, baths, teeth brushing, pajamas, bedtime stories. Two more bedtime stories. And just one more bedtime story. And just one more bedtime story. And by that time, I was ready to put myself to bed. So, the kids went to bed, and I’d love to say I had a productive night of learning about 8 counts, but let’s be honest. I went to bed.

Monday morning. 6 days till game time. WHAT IS AN 8 COUNT??? Brush teeth, put on school clothes, breakfast, check backpacks for weekend homework, library books, get your coats, gloves, hats—don’t forget your coat. Your snacks are still on the counter. Put your snacks in your backpack! Where is your coat? Do you have your gloves? Shoes. Wait, why don’t you ever come downstairs with socks? Get socks!!! You need to go potty? Take your gloves off. Where did you put your gloves? You just had them! Here. Here are a different pair. You want your Frozen gloves? Well, I’m sorry. You just lost them. Seriously, though. You just had them! Never mind. Hurry! We are late! Get in the car!

9 hours later, I have finished a shift in the emergency department. I have emergently sent someone to cardiac catheterization lab for a heart attack. I have put a chest tube into a patient with a collapsed lung. I have diagnosed appendicitis in a patient with abdominal pain. I have put a broken arm in a splint. Guess what. I still do not know what an 8 count of dance is.

My husband is out of town. My daycare provider is on her honeymoon. My nanny is in Kentucky. My friend, part of my life-line team, and second mom to my kids has picked them up from the bus stop, and is feeding them dinner before taking my daughter to dance. I get off work in time to meet her for dinner, and finally, finally—someone who knows what an 8 count is. She educates me and I feel like she has given me the map to finding something as profound as the fountain of youth. I KNOW WHAT AN 8 COUNT IS. Thank you friend. Thank you for picking up my kids. Thank you for feeding them. Thank you for not laughing at me when I asked you what an 8 count is. Thank you for offering to help your super dance-challenged friend choreograph a piece. Thank you a million times over.

Monday evening comes around. I am armed with my knowledge. I still have no beat and do not know the first thing about dance moves. I watch old clips of dance studio numbers. I get swept up in how good the dancers are and forget to pay attention to what will work for choreographing a dance for my daughter. I have no idea what I am doing. I am in a frenzy. My husband gets home from Philadelphia or Sarasota or wherever his out-of-town trip was this time—I seriously cannot keep track. I thrust my arms in the air and dramatically groan. “I give up! You need to do this! I can’t do this!” before he has a minute to put down his carry-on luggage and take off his shoes. I am passing the buck, because truly, my husband can stand without spraining his ankle and can pick up choreography and help our daughter with her dances in a much more effective way than I have ever been able to. He has officially and involuntarily been promoted to choreographer. He is startled or maybe frightened by this seemingly hasty but unwavering promotion I have bestowed upon him.

I go to bed that night irrationally assured and unequivocally certain that I will awaken in the morning to a choreographed, adorable number that my husband has masterfully slapped together. He is literally good at everything (except completing a full load of laundry from start to finish—blogpost for another day). But this. Oh, this he will excel at. I know. I just know. Because, well, we truly have no other option.

The morning alarm hurls its horrible short sirens through our peaceful slumber. We fall out of bed, time to get ready, time to get the kids ready, more than half-asleep, we are already late, I’m sure. My husband breaks the news. He spent a harrowing 60 minutes last night trying and came to the conclusion that it is in fact impossible to choreograph 6 – 8 8 counts of dance moves to create an audition piece. We can’t. He says. We just can’t.

Okay. Let’s take a minute. If there is one thing that makes me know I CAN is someone telling me I CANNOT. The fire has been lit and I am the woman for the job. I demote him from his title, and re-promote myself. The buck stops here.

So, I do it. I truly can’t even explain how it came to be. I just DID. I choreographed 8 8 counts of dance moves to a beautiful song called “Superman” picked by my strong-as-steel seven-year-old daughter. It is Tuesday, and she has an audition piece. She is beyond thrilled. I see the excitement shiver up from her toes to the sparkle in her eyes. She practices on repeat each day. She is in love with her audition piece.

Fast-forward 6 days and it is Sunday morning. It is the day of her audition. She picks her audition outfit. She performs for her brother, sister, mom and dad. My insides are weeping with pride. She is beautiful. She is brave, she is powerful, she is IT. She walks into her audition with not a nerve in her clean, long lines, and she let’s them know: She is strong-as-steel.

We have yet to know if she will do a specialty dance. That will be announced in the following weeks, but wow. I’m not sure that part of this story truly even matters.

This head-strong, quiet, seven-year-old of mine gave me my greatest challenge to date, and I gave it right back to her. If I didn’t realize it before, I realize it now. This is the building of a strong, fearless girl. I am up for the challenge. We beat down that audition. Regardless of the outcome, deep down, I wholeheartedly know we have already nailed it.

You are SUPER mom! I’m laughing all over again reading this because I can just see you putting this dance together! That story will live on for MANY years! hahaha! I’m secretly praying she makes the dance!